Stray 20s on Culebra



Crouch underneath a Crown Victoria that’s
Crippled as fuck; suspended on cement blocks,
mid-surgery, spokes and spindles and this
nickel chrome that won’t show its keyhole
magic or give what
I’ve known about the cone entering from only a backside,
Passed on by Big Spooky, my old camarada from La Puente,
Who passed the shit onto me like an heirloom jale
confessing the accumulation of
loads and loads of it,
this shit cooped up like flocks of
pelicanos and postponed exonerations
in tire shop garages while electrical wires go soft, stilted
as asphalt and burned spoons and lilacs;

it’s the kites that fetter me
so faithfully to images of Dayton chrome and 85 Regals and chases.